


Today, Tomorrow

by kekinkawaii



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cashier Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Paramedic Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:26:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28283943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kekinkawaii/pseuds/kekinkawaii
Summary: Dean worked the night shift, Castiel worked the morning shifts, and somewhere in between they stretched so far they spilled over and collided.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 10
Kudos: 55





	Today, Tomorrow

> “How did it get so late so soon?”
> 
> ― Dr. Seuss

Castiel liked working the morning shifts. 

When he’d told Gabriel this over a phone call, his brother’s response was indignation and disgust and a little tiny smear of awe. It wasn’t an unexpected reaction from Gabriel, whom Castiel spent the majority of his tween years trying to shake awake so that he could get a drive to the middle school twenty miles away before he realized he could just bike and it would be exponentially easier than lugging a hundred and eighty pounds of grumpy, sleepy, murderous big brother out of his warm cozy bed. Over a dozen years later, his sleeping habits hadn’t changed much.  _ He  _ could afford it, working as a freelancing comedian; his hours could’ve been picked by throwing darts blindfolded at a clock. The Metro was hardly so flexible. 

The air was irregularly humid today and clung to the sleeves of Castiel’s jacket like thick, sticky ozone as he pulled his car into the corner of the lot and switched off the ignition. Perhaps it would rain; that would explain the greying skies and the muggy scent that carried even into the automatic sliding doors of the grocery store.

“Morning, Angel,” Pamela greeted him as he unhooked his bright-green vest, replaced it with his coat, shrugged it on. “How’s your day been?”

“I woke up half an hour ago,” Castiel replied evenly. She always asked her employees how their day had been, despite the time. Castiel didn’t mind, although he did wish he would have something more substantial to say other than ‘nothing much’. “Nothing much.”

“No news is better than bad news,” Pamela chirped, patting Castiel on the shoulder. “You’re on cashier duty today. Two shifts, then switch to restocking. We’re supposed to be getting a new arrival on Poinsettias this morning.”

“It’s barely November,” Castiel said.

“Early bird gets the worm.” Pamela winked. “And we know that better than anyone, don’t we?”

Ash arrived ten minutes later, late enough for a raised eyebrow from Pamela but not late enough for anything more. He muttered something about an overdue essay and uni applications before scribbling his name on the attendance clipboard. 

“How’s your day been?” Pamela asked him, too.

“Shitty,” Ash said bluntly, and Castiel hid a smile before heading off to check-out station number three.

He liked morning shifts, and it wasn’t just because of the significant lack of customers in the store compared to the riotous Friday afternoons. In the mornings, Castiel could take his time. He stood in his booth and double-checked that the receipt paper was well-stocked, the scanner was fully charged, and the nametag on his vest was visible and read  _ Castiel  _ in his neatest handwriting from so many years ago, his first-ever real job after springing around part-times like an overeager kid in a bouncy castle. He watched Ash carefully stack cans of tomato and rice soup onto the special Thanksgiving display while, overhead, the speakers crackled to life as Pamela cleared her throat and muttered, ‘Testing, testing,  _ there _ we go—good morning, Metro, and we are… officially open!”

The first customer arrived a few minutes after six, an old woman who always wore dresses in the summer, long breezy coats in the fall.

“Good morning, Darlene,” Castiel spoke, and smiled when he saw her approaching.

“Hi, dear,” Darlene said, placing a bouquet of flowers and a tin of tea biscuits on the belt. Castiel scanned them with ease, placing them on the side and not into a bag, because Darlene always bought her own beaten-up canvas bag, carefully folded in her pocket.

“Cash?” Castiel asked, and held out his hand to accept the trembling toonies deposited into his palm. Always exact change, and Castiel reciprocated the exchange with a fluttering receipt.

“Looks like rain,” Darlene said as she took her groceries and began to stash them into her bag.

“Yes,” Castiel agreed. “Did you bring an umbrella?”

“I did, sweetie, thank you for asking.” Darlene tucked the receipt into the bag, and then took the whole thing onto her shoulder. She was shockingly strong with those—Castiel recalled a day a few months ago when she had carried a whole pork roast without breaking a sweat. “You have a lovely day, young man.”

“Thank you, Darlene. You too.” Castiel watched her leave with a bit of upturn in his lips, a more relaxed set to his shoulders as he turned to face the next customer. He was twenty-nine, hardly young, but then again, Darlene was nearly thrice that by now.

The day passed. The store gradually rose in volume, from quiet careful murmurings to the bustling chatter of customers, growing in numbers as the minutes ticked by. Castiel scanned apples, leeks, boxes of tissue paper, canned tomato and rice soup. Fashion magazines, gossip magazines, comic books grabbed at the last minute before getting to the front of the line.

At ten in the morning, Castiel switched the light off of his station and headed to the back of the building, where he unloaded pots upon pots of ruby-red poinsettias until his nose itched and his pants were dotted with speckles of dirt. At eleven, Castiel took his lunch break and sat at the benches outside of the building while Ash leaned on the wall and smoked. He offered Castiel one on his first day, and never offered again after he declined the first time. At one in the afternoon, Castiel signed off on the clipboard, retrieved his jacket, walked out the doors into the rain—which had begun in a soft, purring pitter-patter—and got in his car and drove home. He made another meal, watched an oddly-riveting documentary on forging swords on TV, and slept before nine.

“Good morning,” Castiel said, and there was no response. He didn’t even sigh at it anymore, the flicker of irritation he’d gotten in the first few months of working long doused with the hazy shimmer of resignation. On the belt: apples, beef jerky, beer, scanned swiftly. “How will you be paying today?”

A twenty, shoved at him. Silent. Castiel looked up and nearly let his expression show on his face.

The man looked—like somebody had swooped him up and wrung him through nine washes in the heavy duty laundry cycle. He was wearing a beaten-up jacket, dark green and zipped up to his neck. It matched the colour and shade of his eyes, shadowed and lined with exhaustion, fixed on the floor. His mouth was set in a firm, unyielding line.

“Cash it is,” Castiel murmured, and gently tugged the bill from tightly-clenched fingers.

He watched the man gather up his things in his arms, without a bag. He hugged them close to his chest in a way that nearly seemed childish, and it made Castiel’s fingers twitch.

He watched him walk out the doors, then turned to the next customer. 

“Good morning,” Castiel said. “Hello,” he said sometimes, instead, in the peakpoint hours when he wasn’t  _ quite  _ sure if it had flipped over to the afternoon just yet. “How are you?” he would ask if he felt particularly brave. If he knew them; Chad from the pizza shop across the plaza, the student who always bought the same flavour and brand of bubble gum, the shy quiet woman who always smiled and paid with credit, Darlene. Sometimes, he’d say nothing at all.

“Good morning,” Castiel said. He was busy replacing the roll of receipt paper that had run dry on the last customer just then. The latch was an absolute pain in the ass to click shut, and Castiel murmured a soft apology as he wrenched it, finally, into place.

“No worries,” a voice answered, light and vaguely amused. “I’ve got all day.”

“That’s not what the next customers in line think,” Castiel said before he could think, and straightened to face the customer just in time to see him break into a wide, crooked grin.

“Ain’t that right,” the stranger said. Or, not so stranger. Castiel could’ve sworn he’d seen those green eyes before. He blinked, glanced onto the belt, and began to scan his items. Frozen pizza rolls. Beer. Beef jerky. Salt. He  _ had  _ seen him before, just a few days ago, maybe a week. He fought the urge to look up at him again, nearly dazed by the juxtaposition. “How will you be paying today?”

“Cash.” Two crumpled twenties were held out, and this time, the man’s fingers were steady and warm as Castiel reached out to take them, gently brushing against his palm as they withdrew. “Thanks, Cas.”

Castiel blinked again, this time looking down to his nametag.

“Castiel,” the man amended. “If that’s what you want me to call you instead?”

“Oh,” Castiel said. “That’s fine. I mean—yes. Cas is fine.” He felt inexplicably out-of-place all of a sudden, the ground beneath him off-balance.

“Awesome. I’m Dean.” Dean smiled at him again. His eyes were very green; Castiel hadn’t noticed last time, or maybe they were just brighter today.

At Castiel’s lack of response, the smile turned a little awkward, sliding to the side. “Um,” Dean said. “I dunno if you remember me—”

“I do.”

“Oh—well—good, I mean—oh, jeez.” Dean tossed back his head and let out a bark of a self-deprecating laugh. “I don’t think I made a very good impression back there, did I? I’m sorry. Do you think we could start over?”

“Start over?” Castiel said. Something akin but not quite anxiety tingled along his shoulder blades. On his right, the cash register beeped cheerfully, indicating that the transaction had been completed. There was a line of around two people behind Dean.

“You know,” Dean said.

Cas didn’t know. He felt his head, very slightly, cant to the side in confusion.

“Fuck,” he heard Dean mutter.

“Would you like a bag?” Castiel tried.

“What?” Dean said. “Yeah. Sure. Why not.”

Castiel dutifully handed Dean a plastic bag, and watched as Dean shoved his stuff into it without a care. He nearly winced at the clatter of beer bottles, but thankfully, they remained intact.

“Sorry,” Dean said. “I’m just gonna—” He jerked a thumb towards the sliding automatic doors.

“Okay,” Castiel said. “That’s… good.”

Even Dean winced at that. “Right,” he said. “See ya, Cas.”

“Have a nice day.”

“You too,” Dean said, and before Castiel could blink he was halfway out the building. Castiel stared at his disappearing figure for a few seconds, wondering if Dean was perhaps high or stoned (wouldn’t be the first time someone had come into the store inebriated), and then turned to the next customer in line.

Castiel wasn’t sure if he started seeing Dean more, or just noticing him more.

Over the next few weeks, he scanned and smiled and restocked and reshelved and ate his lunch at the benches, which were growing steadily colder with each passing day. It even snowed one weekend, and him and Ash had dragged Pamela out to the back so that they could crane their necks up and watched the snowflakes swirl through the air. Pamela had swung an arm around Castiel and pulled him into a half-hug, and for a moment out in the cold, Castiel nearly felt happy.

Dean would always be in the store at the wee hours of opening, when the trickle of customers was honeysuckle-slow. Sometimes he would smile, sometimes he would grin, sometimes he’d make a quip about his cholesterol levels while Castiel scanned his frozen food of the day. Sometimes he would say nothing at all. His eyes were navy green, Caribbean green, sometimes so dark they nearly seemed black. There was a veil around him, those days, shuttered with the distant pain in the tight line of his mouth. Castiel pursed his lips and ducked his head, those days, and tried to stifle the deafening volume of his curiosity.

Dean came every few days or so. Once a week, twice a week, and on occasion, three. Not that he was counting. “Oh, boy,” Ash had said when Castiel skimmed the topic one morning with a casual breach in conversation, and rolled his eyes. Castiel had squinted suspiciously, and Ash had rolled his eyes harder and said,  _ Nothing,  _ in the exact tone of voice that meant absolutely the opposite of nothing.

On a particularly-warm day near the end of November, Castiel tore open the letters containing his water and electricity bills, laid them out on the table, and stared at them with a feeling a little like despair and a little like bitterness.

There was a Gas n’ Sip a five-minute drive away from the Metro. The owner was a gruff, hoarse man named Max who had grunted at Castiel until he handed over his resume, scanned it, and asked, “When can you come in?”. The pay was higher for the late-night shifts because nobody wanted them, least of all the highschoolers at the dingy convenience shop making up the majority of the employees.

The paradigm shift was enough to knock Castiel off-kilter for the good part of a fortnight. Where the Metro was soft sleepy smiles and the careful rumble of a morning voice, the Gas n’ Sip sunk its desperate fingers into Castiel’s shoulders (the vest, too, dark-blue and heavier than the Metro) and sang with the curious lilt of a red-eye night. Castiel couldn’t deny that he hadn’t been nervous, considering the stories he’s heard, but the manager insisted he’d be okay—what with the security cameras and the safety system. The six-inch knife he kept under the register didn’t hurt, either. The customers here were on the complete other side of the coin compared to the Metro,  _ too early  _ flipping into  _ too late  _ and bedhead hair turning to eyebags and jaw-creaking yawns.

“Good morning,” he said on his first shift, and his customer—a baseball-cap wearing truck driver—had squinted and glared at him instinctively. 

“Y’call this a morning?” he mumbled.

“Um,” Castiel said.

The man sighed, adjusted his cap. “N’ermind,” he said. “Just ring me up for Pump Seven.”

After that Castiel said “Hello” instead and it worked much better.

His shifts lined up with a black-haired girl named Emma, who wore eyeliner thick as the edge of a bat’s wing. She was usually on her phone, texting her boyfriend. Castiel watched a lot of grainy football from the single television in the upper-right corner and fought the rising cramps and aches in the balls of his feet from standing all day—morning, afternoon, whatever. It was lonelier here than the Metro, he decided, but there was still, nonetheless, something peaceful and oddly sentimental in the quiet whirr of the slushy machine and the faint indistinguishable hum of the fluorescent lights, flickering ever-so-often like they were saying hi.

Three to five in the mornings, plus some odds and ends on the weekends. Castiel thought about how he never really went out during the day anyway. How Gabriel was on tour for his newest bit and jumping through timezones like a trapeze dancer at Cirque du Soleil and was too busy sleeping with groupies and writing terrible jokes to call anyway. Five to six AM became a gaping chasm of pitch-black unknown, sometimes filled with a desperate, black-out nap and others with a stroll through the park, stars illuminated in streetlamps. He started sleeping before dinnertime. 

“Hello,” Castiel said, seeing the cup of coffee on the counter and tapping it into the register. He wondered why people drank it, really—he had a cup once and nearly gagged it back out, the bitterness astringent like paint thinner and the sweetener like aspartame—perhaps they were desperate, he decided, that must be it. He encountered all kinds, here; truck drivers and hitchhikers and road-tripping high schoolers and night shift security guards. It was a significantly-different world than his Metro shift, filled with ladies from retirement homes and early-morning joggers. If not for the hour-long pause before his switch to the latter, he’d probably get whiplash.

“Cas?”

Castiel’s hands froze on the keys. “Dean?”

A small, mystified laugh. “Holy crap. You work here, too?”

Dean was wearing nothing but a t-shirt, plain black and straining at the shoulders. He was gripping the counter of the check-out desk with something like surprise. Castiel moved his eyes up to Dean’s face and saw that his eyes were shimmering today, brighter than ever.

“Yes,” he said. “And you’re here, too.”

“Looks like it.” Dean ran a hand through his hair, leaving it vaguely spiked. He was sweating, Castiel realized, and wondered briefly why he was sweating in a t-shirt when it was three thirty in the morning on a November night. “I promise I’m not stalking you.”

He smiled at Castiel.

“Small world,” Castiel said, and rung Dean up for his coffee.

So—Dean was here, too. And he was there, too. He was everywhere these days, or at least he seemed to be. Sometimes, Castiel would see him twice: once at the gas station and once at the grocery store. Every time, Dean would smile and say, “Hey, Cas” in that quiet, sincere way of his and Castiel would say, “Hello”, “Good morning”, “How are you”, and Dean would respond with an easy quip and, sometimes, a wink.

Dean rubbed his eyes and stifled his yawns at the Metro, but at the Gas n’ Sip, he laughed louder and grinned wider and seemed more—alive, somewhat, brighter and livelier and just a little bit wilder, and Castiel realized one day with a staggering impact that he probably should’ve recognized sooner—Dean didn’t  _ wake up  _ with Castiel, he  _ stayed up  _ with him. Dean worked the night shift, Castiel worked the morning shifts, and somewhere in between they stretched so far they spilled over and collided.

Dean seemed livelier, then, the earlier it was—or the later it was—it really did all blend together, after the first few weeks, the hours becoming nothing more than numbers on a screen; Castiel found himself working through the motions more than ever, refilling the slushy machines without thought and accidentally replacing the strawberry syrup with creamer one day, days swirling into an amalgam of numbers and meaningless words and, on occasion, green eyes and an easy smile.

When his shift at the gas station was over, Castiel gratefully shed the too-heavy jacket and draped it over the chair in the back (Metro had hooks, Gas n’ Sip had a dingy-looking chair next to the decades-old computer) and bode farewell to Emma before heading out the door. He had an hour to kill, and it was a Monday morning and he wasn’t too tired just yet at the bud of the week. He made his way towards the gravel-lined path behind a small neighbourhood, a back-alley kind of trail that lead to the forest, if he walked far enough. 

He made it halfway and was thinking about the birds that had just begun to sing (mourning dove, it sounded like, along with a few stray chickadees) when he heard the crunch of gravel behind him.

Castiel turned halfway before he felt the cold, cold cylinder dig into his back.

“Give me your wallet.” His voice was soft. So soft. Like a caress.

“I,” Castiel said. The gun pressed harder and he felt something go weak and loose in his legs. 

“Don’t talk. Just give me your wallet.”

Castiel reached for his pocket. 

“Slower!” Hissed, harsh, spittle against his cheek. It was five in the morning and there was nobody else but the birds. “Don’t pull anything or I’ll put a goddamn hole in you.”

Castiel didn’t respond. He moved slower. Then, slower still. Minuscule movements, the faintest tremor, two fingers clutching the corner of his wallet (his ID his money his Metro card, he thought stupidly). It was snatched away the instant he pulled it out of his pocket.

The man’s voice was low, but intentionally, judging by the grating tone. His breath smelled like onions, huffed out against Castiel’s face as he paused for a moment, wallet in his hands. Then, he took a step back, so quickly Castiel’s legs gave out under him, him having not realized his weight had been all resting on the other—Castiel inhaled, sharply, and then choked on it when the boot slammed into him hard and heavy, right where the barrel of the gun had been. He hit the ground with a searing pain in his hands and lay there, hardly daring to breathe, as he heard the footsteps run away behind him. 

The mourning dove cooed like she was at a funeral.

One, two, three minutes Castiel lay, eyes closed and teeth gritted, and then he pushed himself up. His palms stung; gravel and hardened dirt rubbed in, mixed with shards of glass, sand, worn with time and now embedded into his skin. Someone must’ve broken a bottle around here, slammed it against a tree, some poor drunk bastard. Just his luck.

He reached for his pockets and felt around until he gripped the familiar leather of his wallet, and the relief hit him so hard he sunk back onto his knees. 

_ (I keep two wallets in my pocket at all times, one with my actual, important things—you know, porn and condoms and crack—and the other I stuff with a dollar or two, some loose change, so that when some dumbass tries to rob me he’ll get nothing but a poor SOB’s ramen money, and I’ll be down and dirty with what  _ really  _ matters. You want it? Go get it!) _

(Gabriel had a bad tendency to copy other people’s jokes and insert them like a crappy punchline with zero buildup like a slap to the face. It’s his style, he defended, which was true, if not unhelpful.)

He let it go, felt it slide back into his pocket, familiar heavy weight, and took out his phone next.

“Hello,” Castiel said, and, with something like giddiness, slammed his mouth shut against the urge to follow it with,  _ Would you like your receipt?  _ “There has been an attempted mugging near Elmer’s Street. Yes, that one. It’s the trail next to the Gas n’ Sip—yes. No. I don’t think so. Yes—he had a gun. I scraped up my hands a little after I fell—he shoved me to escape. Yes, please. Thank you.”

He hung up and let the phone clatter to the ground. His palms hurt like hell for how small the injury was (he had a gun, he had a gun, he had the cold cold metal of the gun shoved up against the small of his back, cocked and loaded, the flinch of a fingers or the twitch of a thumb and—) and he swallowed, hard, against the newly-wedded sting in his eyes.

The stars were still out. Somewhere to his left, a chickadee sang with joy. 

He listened to that chickadee and thought about how Pamela would probably give him hell for missing his shift, if he did, and then thought about how she would probably crush him in a hug and personally track down the mugger to kick his ass once she found out what truly happened, and closed his eyes and breathed in the dust until he heard distant sirens.

Five more minutes, and then encroaching footsteps. Castiel opened his eyes and called out, “I’m over here!”

A voice responded, “Stay there, sir, you’ll be—Cas?”

Castiel thought,  _ No way,  _ and turned around.

“Holy shit,” Dean said, standing in the middle of the path with a bright yellow paramedic jacket and, oh,  _ oh,  _ it all made sense now—the distant pain in his eyes and the glimmer of dull hope and the exhaustion and the quips and Dean was on his knees next to him in the blink of an eye, grappling for his arms and pulling him up so gently.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said.

“You were the one who called?” Dean sounded amazed, disbelief coating his words.

“Yes,” Castiel said, and looked at Dean with a face that said  _ obviously. _

“You were mugged,” Dean said, as if they didn’t know this already. “You called, because you were mugged, and—you’re bleeding.” His voice shifted, all of a sudden, a laser-point of focus that could slice him in half.

“It’s not too bad,” Castiel said.

“Bullshit,” Dean said, and grabbed Castiel’s right hand and held it up to his face. He pursed his lips, twisting, flicker-film over his eyes. “C’mon, there’s a sink in the back of the van. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Okay,” Castiel said, and focused on Dean’s fingers, warm and steady, on his arm.

They walked the path to the van in silence, breaths syncing up, Castiel’s going doubletime. “How are you feeling?” Dean asked once they reached it, while he dug in his pockets for the keys and popped open the back. 

Castiel felt Dean’s hands on him, helping him up and into the van. “I scraped my palms,” he said. “Gravel, mostly. I think there was some glass.”

Behind him, Dean cursed, and the van lurched gently, swaying, as he hopped up after Castiel. “Here,” he said, steering him towards a sink at the side. He turned on the taps for him, and Castiel watched, feeling oddly detached and calm, as Dean fiddled with the two sides of the handles until he seemed satisfied.

“C’mere,” he murmured, gesturing for Castiel.

Castiel put his hands under the running water and hissed at the sudden flare of pain.

“Sorry, sorry,” Dean said, even though it wasn’t his fault. “I’ll just—can I—” He made a move as if to reach his hands into the sink with Castiel, and then withdrew an inch. “Can I help?”

“Sure,” Castiel said, and Dean immediately took Castiel’s hands in his. He rinsed the gravel off of his hands, gently rubbing it out of his skin with a firm swoop of his thumb. Castiel stood, and swayed a little, and watched as Dean bent down to examine his palms more carefully, taking it out of the water every once in a while to see it against the light.

“Okay,” he said. “I think I’ve gotten most of it out, now. It just needs to be disinfected—you said there was glass, who knew where it had been before—” Mumbling something to himself, Dean turned off the tap and guided Castiel towards a stack of paper towels.

After drying himself off, Castiel sat down at the foot of a hospital bed in the middle of the van. During the lull while Dean answered a fuzzy radio call and filled something out in the driver’s seat, he studied the van. There was a tray of medical equipment off to the side, a dangling IV, a row of neat little papers on clipboards. This was where Dean worked, he thought, all night. Saving people. Saving lives.

“Here.” Dean was suddenly at his side again. Castiel blinked, startled. Before he could speak, Dean had taken ahold of his hands and was turning them around, flipping them over like he was trying to memorize every whorl. He made a small unhappy noise in his throat when he saw the scratched-up state of his palms.

“This might sting,” he warned, holding up what Castiel presumed to be an alcohol swab. Castiel nodded, and Dean paused for a second before slowly bringing it down to his hands, wiping them down.

It hurt more than the water had, but again, not too bad. Castiel had worse dealing with the receipt printer when it’d pinched the meaty part of his thumb hard enough to cut through. Not bad enough for him to make a noise, not after he’d anticipated it, and definitely not bad enough to warrant all of this attention.

“Dean,” Castiel said.

“Yeah?” Dean looked at him hard, the intensity making Castiel squirm more than the alcohol swab.

“I don’t—thank you, for doing this, but I’m okay.” Castiel’s felt cold as the air hit the drying alcohol, evaporating on his hands and cutting through the sting. “It’s not that bad at all.”

Dean said something too quietly for Castiel to hear.

“What?” Castiel said. 

Finished patching him up, Dean scrunched up the swabs and tossed them into the wastebasket. He came back around to the bed, where Castiel was already standing, and faced him. His eyes were solemn, and he suddenly looked very young. “Doesn’t mean I can’t take care of you.”

Castiel thought that through for a moment. “Fair enough,” he said, and Dean smiled.

“I still need to finish filing the report,” Dean said. “This kind of thing, it’s not too big, but I just need to ask you some questions. Do you think…”

“My shift at the Metro starts at six,” Castiel said. “I can text Pamela, my manager, if you need?”

“Six,” Dean muttered, and glanced at his watch. “Yeah, uh. Do that, just in case.”

Castiel did, shooting off a quick text (along with a reassurance that he was fine) and then sat back down on the bed. This time, Dean sat down next to him, the bed creaking under their combined weight.

“Alright,” Dean said, tapping his pen against the clipboard. “You mentioned most of it in the call, actually—you were shockingly coherent, we managed to piece together most of the situation from just that—but, just to clarify, you were mugged at the path?”

Castiel nodded. 

“Any features you recognized? Voice, face?”

Shake of his head. “He approached me from behind. His voice was… quiet. Soft. His breath smelled like onions.” A shiver ran through him like a power line struck by lightning.

Dean wrote something on the paper. “And he had a gun.” 

“Yes,” Castiel said. “I don’t know if it was loaded, but it was definitely a gun—hard metal. Cold. He pressed it against my back—” Suddenly, his throat seemed to close up. He inhaled and found the air thready, thin.

“Hey, woah.” Dean’s hand hovered near his back for a second before deciding, dropping down to rub slow circles. “You okay? That’s all we need to know, Cas, we can stop now if you need.”

“Sorry,” Castiel gasped out. “I don’t know—what’s wrong.”

“Shock,” Dean murmured, still rubbing his back. “I’m surprised it didn’t settle in sooner.”

“Why?” Castiel could only deign for one-word responses, his breathing coming in erratic bursts. It was nearly irritating.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “You were mugged at gunpoint,” he said bluntly.

“Hardly,” Castiel managed. “He didn’t even—didn’t even get my wallet.”

Dean’s eyebrows flew higher. Castiel (his fingers were shaking, he realized) reached into his pocket, grasped his real wallet, and tossed it on the pillow on the far end of the bed.

“Always carry two wallets,” he said. He choked down the urge to crack Gabriel’s joke about condoms and porn. He doubted Dean would appreciate it, though he could chalk it up to the shock.

Dean stared at the wallet on the pillow, resting boldly in contrast with the snow-white of the sheets. He tossed back his head and laughed, loud and open and just the slightest hysterical. “Cas,” he said, “don’t ever change.”

Castiel laughed with him, gasped out little burbles of it, and couldn’t tell when it morphed into something accompanied with tears. The tremors spread to his wrist, his arms, until his whole body was trembling ever-so-slightly.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Hey,” Dean said, and moved closer until they were pressed together, side by side. His arm crept around his shoulders until he was holding him together, holding him in. “I’ve got you, Cas. You’re gonna be okay. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

Castiel turned his face into Dean’s chest, the scratchy plastic of the paramedic vest a cool kiss against his wet cheeks. Dean’s hands were trailing along his back, tracing unidentifiable patterns, soothing loops and whorls. They stayed until the sun came up, spilling streaks of white-gold across the bed.

Castiel wasn’t keen on lying to himself. He knew, very acutely, the way his day became sunnier, the radio music less irritating and the customers nicer, with each one of Dean’s smiles, and how the green of the Metro’s logo and his heavy employee vest reminded him of nothing but Dean’s eyes anymore, and Dean’s low rough laughter in his ears echoing as he exited through the sliding doors and the tinkle of the bells, but he thought of that, and then he thought of Dean, who saved dozens of lives every night, Dean with his strong eyes and capable hands, and then of himself saying the same meaningless phrases, hello, good morning, cash or debit, thank you have a nice day dozens and dozens a day nothing more than a machine, and the words died in his throat.

The days got colder, frost percolating on the windshield and fog on his breath. Castiel went to work every morning (or every night, depending on how you looked at it), finished the season finale of the strange swordmaking show (of which he had grown disconcertingly attached to), and started wearing a shiny-crinkly-bubbly-jingly pair of reindeer antlers to work, courtesy of Pamela. Apparently, those were the “rules” that he needed to wear them for every shift. Castiel doubted it, but Ash looked like he was having too much fun for Castiel to take that away from him, the way he snickered and tweaked his antler every time he walked past him. The occasional coo and grin from the customers sometimes put a flush to his face, though.

“Well aren’t you festive?” Dean had said the first time he’d walked in to see the accessory perched atop his head, craning his neck dramatically as if to get a better view.

Castiel scowled, fleetingly. Dean was buying a box of chocolates today.

“For my brother,” he’d said, unprompted.

“You have a brother?” 

Dean nodded and clicked his tongue.  _ Unfortunately,  _ spelled out on his exaggerated features. “Total pain in the ass. Getting some big yukky job as a lawyer.” He shook his head and rolled his eyes but Castiel could see the pride shining through, and he smiled secretively, affectionately, hoping Dean wouldn’t see. “A health nut, too.”

“Which is why you’re buying him a box of assorted chocolates and pralines.”

Dean grinned. “Well, you know how it is. S’my job as a big brother to annoy him to death.”

“I have an older brother,” Castiel said, after he had scanned everything and Dean had paid, right before he was going to walk out the door. “His name’s Gabriel.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dean said, stilling and turning back around. “Is he like you?”

Castiel squinted. “What does that mean?”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly averting Castiel’s gaze. “Uh, y’know. Like. Nice. Friendly. Cute.”

“What?”

Dean watched Castiel carefully for a moment, and then broke into a huge, smarmy grin, waggling his eyebrows. “Yeah, y’know, cute. 'Specially with that headband. Those antlers really bring out your eyes.” 

Castiel rolled his eyes. His eyes were blue. “Red and blue are not complementary colours, Dean.”

“Oh, well, look at you, Picasso.”

“That’s basic knowledge, Dean, you learn it in elementary school.”

“Oh, well, look at you, Mr. I Remember Everything From Elementary School. Quick, what’s the Mitochondria?”

“The,” Castiel said, and skidded. “That’s not fair. That’s a biology term. I didn’t like biology.”

“He’s been  _ defeated,”  _ Dean announced.

“Dean, really?” Castiel fought to hide how big the smile across his face wanted to be. “You’re holding up the line.”

Dean sighed. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll get out of your hair.” He shot a fingergun at Castiel before he left, then pointed it to himself, at the maroon jacket he was wearing. “And, by the way—luckily for  _ me,  _ red and  _ green _ are complementary colours.” With a wink of those green eyes, he was swiftly out the door.

The comments continued, trailing exaggerations and glittering quips. Dean always seemed to have something to say, which was why, when Castiel caught wind of a nasty cold one Tuesday afternoon, called the next day off—then the next, then the next—he found himself curiously prodding the glaring lack of that voice.

He never really got too close to his customers (Darlene still smiled at him and he smiled back and they exchanged greetings and small talk about her husband, who was suffering from Alzheimer's—it was bittersweet all the same), knew some by memory and forgot the others within the instant from turning from them to the next, but he didn’t want to think about the reason Dean had sidled in and stuck, firmly, onto the forefront of his mind.

Castiel drank chicken noodle soup from a can and watched bad daytime TV and blew his nose while swaddled in as many blankets as he could find from his small cluttered apartment (whose rent was far, far higher than it had any right to be) for five days straight. Gabriel always recovered quickly, one or two days before he was back on his feet and “crackalackin”. Castiel got the short end of the straw in sickness. (On the other hand, Gabriel had gotten the  _ short _ end of the straw, quite literally, so perhaps it was even.)

If Castiel called Gabriel up and told him that he was developing a dangerously-potent crush on a random guy he scanned groceries for, Gabe would probably make fun of him until he choked, and made it the main topic of his latest standup.

When Castiel finally, finally woke up without feeling like he was slowly being suffocated in a pile of hot goopy sand, he came into work at the Metro to find that the annual holiday donations project had grown from a few measly leaf-shaped cards taped on their store window, into a whole display. Two bucks for a leaf, three for a bird, and five for a present. So far, they had a neatly-stapled arrangement lined up forming a Christmas tree, each leaf with a handwritten message from the customer who donated. All along the branches, birds threw their heads back, frozen in mid-song.

Right above all that, right in front of Castiel’s usual cashier number 3, there was a garland of presents, bright and sparkling. Each of them trailing the other, each of them with a single scrawled all-caps word.

GET WELL SOON, CAS, the first row read. MERRY XMAS, the second row spelled out. Red and green and blue. On the very bottom, trailing a little lower than the others, like a postscript: a little cross.

DEAN.

Castiel stared at it for so long Ash came scurrying along with a pile of tinsel for the windowpanes, and knocked shoulders with him.

“Oh, sorry,” Castiel said.

Ash followed Castiel’s gaze to the window, and then back to him, his face plastered with a shit-eating grin. “No worries,” he said, low, slow, and worryingly cheery.

“Merry Christmas indeed,” Pamela called out from where she was wrestling with a receipt printer. “Hey, Angel, you better tie him down quick, or I’ll snatch him up instead.”

“Shut up,” Castiel said, and ignored Pamela’s scandalized gasp in lieu of hiding his smile under his vest.

Castiel didn’t see him at the Gas n’ Sip the next morning (or that night—he was really getting tired of flipping between those terms), but he saw him the day after at the Metro check-out, and saw his head craning all the way from the entrance doors, and saw the way he beamed, bright as sunshine, and waved.

“Welcome back,” Dean said, just a few minutes later. 

Castiel glanced at the checkout belt: Bagel Bites and beer. Again. “You should really eat healthier,” he said.

Dean appeared taken aback. “You sound like Sam,” he said. His brother, Castiel assumed. “Well, I wasn’t the one who got knocked down sick for five days straight, so I think that’s a little hypocritical of you, ain’t it, Cas?”

“I have a bad immune system,” Castiel defended weakly.

“And  _ I,”  _ Dean said, “have a really kickass immune system. So don’t you go worrying about me.”

Castiel chewed on his lip. “Still,” he said. “All the frozen foods and the alcohol—it can’t be good for you. You’re a paramedic, you should be eating better. Especially since you’re constantly working these strange hours, all night long.”

“Aw, Cas,” Dean said, “I didn’t know you cared.”

“I do,” Castiel said.

Dean blinked slowly. “Well, okay, then,” he said, and suddenly disappeared. Castiel stood at the register, Bagel Bites melting in his hands and shooting apologetic looks at the next people in line, until Dean came loping back.

He dropped a bag of apples on the belt. “There.”

Castiel picked them up. There were about five or six in the bag. “It’s a start, I suppose,” he relented, and scanned them.

“Oh, and—” He blurted out the words right when Dean had turned.

Dean raised an eyebrow. Apples swinging in his right hand.

“Thank you,” Castiel said. “For, um.” He darted his eyes to the display of donation cards. 

Dean cocked his head, followed Castiel’s gaze, and then grinned a little sheepishly. “Yeah, well. You’re always here, y’know? And all of a sudden, instead of you at the checkout, I’m seeing some gangly teenager with a nicotine addiction.”

“Ash,” Castiel supplied. 

Dean laughed incredulously. “Don’t tell me that’s actually his name?”

“I know, the irony is impeccable.”

_“Yeah._ Anyway, after a few days, I asked him about you, and he told me you were sick, an’ I just—” Dean shrugged. Threw a hand over to the side to haphazardly gesture at the windows. “It’s for charity, isn’t it?”

“It is. But thank you nonetheless.”

The corner of Dean’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. “Anytime, Cas. Glad you’re back.”

Dean started to scatter in apples from then on. Beer was a constant, but now it was sometimes paired with a bag of Gala apples, or Granny Smith, or Golden Delicious.

“Hell, if I’m gonna be coerced into eating apples, might as well switch it up a little, right?” were his words upon Castiel’s inquiry. Every time, he came out and came in with a new type under his belt, reporting back detailing his rating of the apple: texture, taste, appearance, and overall. Sometimes, Castiel would see Dean chewing on the apple when he came into the Gas n’ Sip. It felt—nearly strange, anachronistic, to see the two worlds crossing over. The two of them did that every day, but seeing something materialistic, like an apple, was oddly jarring in a way Castiel couldn’t place his finger on.

It was only when he came into the Metro and placed nothing but a single Fiji apple on the belt, that Castiel realized Dean had been coming into the store to ostensibly grocery shop every single morning. And then he realized that Dean had been coming into the Gas n’ Sip more often than ever, too, sometimes buying a pack of gum and tossing one at Castiel before loping out the store, one time fiddling with the slushie machine until he made some sort of monster concoction of all the flavours, paying for it, and leaving it on the counter for Castiel’s “personal enjoyment, you’re welcome, Cas” while he left to receive an emergency call on the flip side of the city.

Castiel saw Dean once, maybe twice, a day, each time no longer than a few precious minutes, and always separated by a counter, a cashier, a grocery belt, a barrier he’d never been really aware of until now, and it felt like pressing his face up against a cold glass window and watching his breath fog up until Dean was obscured from sight. It was enough, he told himself, and it wasn’t.

It was nearly four and Castiel was sitting on a stool behind the bench of the Gas n' Sip, staring at the row of Mike n’ Ikes on the corner of the shelf and wondering if they were expired yet, if his manager noticed or cared, if the customers noticed or cared, when the door slammed open. The bell overhead swung wildly.

Castiel stood up immediately. “Dean? What—”

Dean was holding his left arm close to his body, a bird with a broken wing. His chest was heaving. His eyes glinted, flinty, a wild edge like the frayed rim of a tin can. “Hey, Cas.”

“Dean,” Castiel said again, rounding the bench and approaching Dean quickly. Emma was staying over at Jaxson’s, and the manager had left Castiel on his own. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Dean held up a hand when Castiel got close enough to touch, stopping him in his steps. His hands were relatively clean, Castiel saw, but on the wrists there were smears with dirt and black soot and patches of flaking rust. “I’m fine. I’m, ah. I’m just here for some coffee.”

“Coffee,” Castiel repeated, and then his eyes caught on the edge of Dean’s sleeve. “Dean, you’re bleeding.” On Dean’s forearm, the one he had been holding carefully, there was a gash—not big enough to require stitches, but bleeding sluggishly just the same.

“It’s nothing,” Dean said, and judging by the barely-there flicker of expression, that’s what he really thought.

“Don’t be a hardass,” Castiel said, steely, and watched Dean recoil a little in surprise. “There’s a bathroom in the back with hot water and soap. I can get you bandages and disinfectant.”

“I’m fine,” Dean started, but Castiel stared with as much indignation as he could muster and he seemed to give in.

“Thanks, Cas,” he said, voice heavy. “I mean it. Thank you.”

“No problem,” Castiel said immediately. “It’s right this way. There’s a password, but I know it.”

Castiel bit his lip for a moment before reaching out and taking Dean’s arm. Gingerly. Dean let him, following without another word, and Castiel felt a rush of relief upended with worry as he led Dean to the special employee’s washroom that customer’s weren’t allowed to use, and punched in the passcode.

Dean raised his eyebrows at the EMPLOYEES ONLY sign scribbled and taped onto the door. “Guess I’m just that special,” he queried, and smiled at Castiel with eyes ringed with exhaustion.

Castiel suppressed the sudden, inexplicable urge to reach out and pull Dean into an embrace. “Just go and get cleaned up,” he said quietly.

“Gotcha,” Dean said, and went. Castiel stayed until he heard the tap turn on, and then turned on his heel and quickly rummaged through the store until he’d gathered a makeshift first-aid kit with band-aids and alcohol swabs.

He heard the door click open and hurried back just in time to see Dean reemerge from the washroom. His hair was slightly damp and spiked up with his fingers, and residual dewdrops hung on his cheeks. “Hey,” he greeted.

“I brought you some stuff,” Castiel said in response, thrusting out the bundle of products towards him. “You can—there’s a stool, behind the counter. Do you want to sit down?”

“Nah,” Dean breathed. He took the stuff and deposited it down at the counter, Castiel trailing behind him. “I need to go back to work, anyway. I’ll just patch myself up and I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”

Ignoring Dean’s words, Castiel grabbed an alcohol swab and ripped it open, taking Dean’s arm in the other hand. Dean grimaced when Castiel pressed it to the cut, gingerly patting and trying not to pull the skin.

“What happened? This… this looks like a knife, Dean.” Castiel traced a finger down the edges of the cut, straight and gleaming, and watched as goosebumps formed.

Dean sighed. “Bad night,” was all he said. “Wasn’t pretty.”

Castiel pursed his lips. “Alright,” he finally said, and went back to patching Dean up. “And you still have to go back to work? After this?”

“Yeah.”

Castiel took the time to genuinely look at him and realized the short, brittle responses and carefully-hidden tremor in his fingers, and wanted to hit himself for asking so many questions. He stopped talking, after that, focusing fully on wrapping Dean’s arm in a gauze-like bandage and wiping it dry with a travel-pack of tissue paper he’d grabbed from the front shelf. He hadn’t paid for any of this, but his manager wouldn’t miss it.

Just the fact that Dean, Dean, Dean who had patched Castiel up with unwavering strength, was standing there, leaning heavily on the side of the counter and letting Castiel do all the work, spoke volumes. He didn’t want to talk about it, and Castiel would respect that. And if something like this was par for the course, Castiel was surprised Dean could smile like he did in the mornings at the Metro—was shocked at the sheer strength that Dean must’ve had.

“That should be okay,” he said quietly once he’d finished. “Just, keep it clean and it should be fine. It’s not a deep cut.”

“I know,” Dean said. 

Castiel drew in a breath. “And, if you ever… if something like this happens again, you can come in here. I’m here from three most days, and otherwise it’ll be Emma. She’s usually texting, but if you tell her I let you, she doesn’t really care. She’ll unlock the washroom for you if you need. And, if she doesn’t, I can just give you the password—”

Castiel skidded to a stop at the feel of Dean’s hand on his arm.

“Thanks,” Dean said. “It’s okay. I didn’t actually—it wasn’t even—I’ll be fine. Really. There’s no need.”

“You should take care of yourself,” Castiel insisted.

“I do,” Dean said. “The best I can, I guess.” His eyes were astonishingly expressive. Castiel didn’t think he’d ever known, seen, spoke to, anyone with such complex eyes.

“Really.” Castiel didn’t know why he was pushing this topic so much, when it was obvious Dean was—tired, sick, exhausted, scarred. Dean’s hands rested on the counter, not trembling but rather unnaturally still. The urge to wrap him in Castiel's arms grew everlastingly strong, to feel his heart beating and never let go. “Dean, I know I’m just a cashier—”

“You’re more than that,” Dean said immediately.

“But I know what goes on in this city at night,” Castiel finished, ignoring the flush that grew in his face at Dean’s words. “If you need anyone to talk to, about anything, really—well, you see me nearly every day.”

“Yeah, okay.” There was still that shuttering film over Dean’s eyes, that dimly-haunted look, but at least now he was looking _at_ Castiel rather than somewhat-not-quite _through_ him.

Dean stood up abruptly. “I should go. I’m still on call. Thanks again for the help.”

“Okay,” Castiel said. “But my offer still stands.”

Dean gave Castiel a smile, small and uncertain but genuine, and it wasn’t nearly as wide nor as happy as the ones he’d seen already, accompanied with a tease or a quip or a joke, but it was the other side of the coin—dim and dark and held tightly like a midnight secret, and Dean had opened up his arms and let Castiel burrow in close enough to read it. It stirred inside Castiel, ruffling up feathers in his chest.

Today, Castiel thought, every morning.  _ I'll do it today.  _

Today, he thought, and  _ today _ turned into  _ tomorrow _ every day when he waved goodbye to Dean and watched him leave through sliding doors, the tinkling bell, the words fluttering in his throat, unwilling to be swallowed back down but all too late to be tumbling out.

Today, he thought one day, and when Dean didn’t show up to the gas station, he thought, Today, at the Metro—he could smile and say it, easy as that, so very casually, just drop a line, a suggestion, a question, just like that—and when Dean didn’t show up to the Metro, either, Castiel thought, Tomorrow.

He had just finished scanning up an insanely-packed grocery cart (what were they doing, preparing for a pandemic?) when he turned to the next person in line and said, “Good morning.”

“Castiel Novak?” The woman said. She had long, red hair, and Castiel thought that he would’ve remembered her solely for that if they knew each other. He was also sure that he hadn’t written his last name on the red-and-green striped nametag. The whole situation was made even stranger by the glaring lack of groceries in her hands, nor on the belt.

“Yes,” Castiel said, cautiously. “Do I know you?”

“No,” the woman said. “Sorry. I’m Charlie—Dean’s friend. Dean told me I’d find you here.”

“Oh,” Castiel said, shoulders straightening. “Hello, Charlie. Why did he send you?” Then he focused, and caught sight of Charlie’s chewed-up lip and twisted fingers and dark, fleeting panic in her eyes. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Charlie lowered her eyes. “It’s Dean,” she said. “He’s at the hospital.”

Castiel felt his whole vision shutter. Tilted, bleak, like it had been dipped into a film of murky pond water. “Is he okay?” (Today, today, why not yesterday, why the  _ hell  _ hadn’t he done it yesterday, and now it was today and now what if it was too late)

“He’s okay,” Charlie said, and Castiel’s shoulders sagged. “I mean, relatively speaking. He was, um. Shot.”

_ “Jesus,”  _ Castiel said, and didn’t even bother digging in the shelves for his  _ Cashier not available _ sign before he was moving, walking out the door, Charlie quick on his heels. 

“Hey, where’re you goin—” Ash was at the entrance, wrangling a long snake of carts.

“Tell Pamela I needed to go,” Castiel said quickly. “Emergency. I’ll call later. Please.”

Ash’s eyes darted between the two of them, before he snapped his mouth shut and nodded.

It was a thirteen-minute drive to the hospital, Castiel’s phone told him. It felt like an hour until he finally pulled into the parking lot, where he sprung out and nearly ran all the way to the doors. At the check-in, the receptionist eyed the two of them for a second, but Charlie pulled out her badge and spoke something swiftly and quietly to her, and she guided them to where Dean was kept with nothing more than a sympathetic stare.

Castiel could see Dean from outside the door, through the frosted window. He was talking a nurse, gesturing something with his hands. He heard the nurse’s laughter from through the doors, and stepped to the side to let her out the room. She was still smiling.

“You must be visitors,” she said. “I’m happy to say that Dean’s condition is stable. He’s going to need at least a few days of rest and recovery, but there should be no lasting symptoms.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said, and thought it again—thank you thank you thank you—and watched the nurse roll her cart away, clacking noisily, before entering the room.

“Yo, Charlie.” Dean’s voice was hoarse but happy. “What’s up? Did you tell—Oh. You did.” Dean’s eyes landed on Castiel, and his gaze sharpened. He pushed himself up higher on the bed. “Hey, Cas.”

“Hi, Dean,” Castiel said.

“You came.”

“You were  _ shot.  _ I had to.”

“You say the sweetest things.”

“And that’s my cue to leave,” Charlie said. “I’ve got some, ah. Paperwork. See ya later, Dean.”

She slapped Castiel on the shoulder as she left. “Attaboy,” she whispered in his ear. The door clicked quietly shut.

Castiel approached Dean’s bed. Dean was wearing one of those tapestry-pale hospital gowns. His left bicep was bundled up in gauze, wrapped around and around until all it was was white.

“It only grazed me,” Dean said. “No worries.”

“No worries?” Castiel repeated. “No  _ worries?  _ Dean, you were  _ shot.” _

“Oh, what, really?” Dean raised his eyebrows.

“That’s not funny,” Castiel said helplessly, and then felt guilty when Dean’s expression sobered up.

“It’s my job, Cas,” he said. “This? This is just part of it.”

Castiel pursed his lips together, frustration etched and sorely felt in the tremor of his fingers in his lap. It was stupid, he wanted to think, Dean was the one who was hurt but Castiel was the one who was shaking instead.

“Hey.” Dean’s voice was soft as he reached over to grasp Castiel’s hand. “I’m okay, though. See? Alive and kickin’.”

“But you could’ve,” Castiel said, voice sounding strangely muffled in his ears even though he wasn’t covering up his mouth. “You could’ve.”

Dean tightened his grip, and Castiel lifted his free hand to rest it on top of their interlocked ones. “Yeah,” he said. “I could’ve. But that’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

Castiel watched their hands, together, Dean’s knuckles rougher and scarred and Castiel’s fingers pale, dexterous. Dean brushed his thumb lightly, back and forth.

“I really like you,” Castiel said, and felt Dean’s fingers twitch. “I’ve been wanting to ask you out for weeks, now.”

“Cas.” Dean was smiling, so hard, eyes shining, like Castiel had just said something unbelievable. “You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”

“I think maybe I do,” Castiel admitted.

Dean laughed, a low huff of air. “So why the hell didn’t you? You know I would’ve said yes in a heartbeat.”

“I just…” The heart monitor was still beeping, he realized in the resulting silence. Steady, maybe just a little quickly. (Alive and kickin’.) “You’re a hero. You save people, dozens of lives, every day.”

Dean waited, and when Castiel didn’t keep talking, said, “So?”

Castiel ducked his head. “So, you’re— _ that— _ and I just—”

“Oh, no, Cas,” Dean said, his grip on Castiel’s hand suddenly getting stronger. “No, no. Don’t.”

“I’ve spent over two years at the back of a cash register,” Castiel said, barrelling on because if he kept the words inside him any longer they would slice him up.

“Cas,” Dean said, a little too loudly. “I need you to shut the hell up and listen to me.”

Castiel clamped his mouth shut, giving Dean a bit of a baleful look.

“Okay,” Dean said. “My brother Sammy? He makes over 100k a year. He’s supposed to make partner by Christmas. And me? I wake up when normal people go to sleep because it’s pretty much the only shift that makes enough money for me to keep my lease.”

Castiel frowned, opened his mouth; Dean shushed him with a finger pressed to his lips.

“And my parents,” Dean said. “They’re dead. Mom died in a house fire when I was eight, and my dad, well.” He grimaced, and let it fall. “Point is—every night, I go to work and I patch people up, but I see band-aids and blood and fear and, and death. At some point, you start to believe that everyone close to you gets hurt. Maybe—maybe that’s why I didn’t say anything, either. Because I was afraid too. But, thing is, you’re the one person I’ve seen every day who isn’t bleeding or high or suffering from a heart attack. I save those people, Cas, every night, but you saved me.”

He let his finger fall. Castiel licked his lips and tasted the faintest salt of his skin. “Dean,” he murmured.

Dean fell back into the bed and shut his eyes. “That was probably the cheesiest thing I’ve ever said,” he said. “I think Sam woulda cried if he were here.”

Castiel’s eyes had been stinging, actually. “Of course you had to go and ruin the moment.”

“What moment?” Dean muttered. “There was no moment.” He cracked one eye open, saw Castiel’s expression, and groaned. “Don’t go all chick-flicky on me, now.”

“You love chick-flicks,” Castiel said. “You bought a DVD copy of  _ Love Actually  _ a week ago.”

“It was on sale!”

Castiel laughed, and then raised Dean’s hands so that he could kiss his knuckles. He didn’t know why he did it, nor did he render the thought process behind the action beforehand—just that one moment he was looking at Dean, and the other, he was trailing his lips down Dean's wrist. Like autopilot. He didn’t mind.

“Chick-flick moments aside,” Castiel said, “I think I know what you were trying to say.”

“Yeah?” Dean was trying to sound gruff, but his fingers were soft as they reached up higher to brush the hair out of Castiel’s face. “Good. Glad we’re on the same page.”

Castiel hummed in agreement and let go of Dean’s hand, but Dean kept it there—stroking back Castiel’s hair, and then cupping his cheek. Achingly gentle.

“You have the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen,” Dean said.

Castiel smiled. “I thought you said—”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Dean said. “I think the pain medication is still wearing off. I’m all loopy and shit.”

“Sure, blame it on the anesthetic.”

“Well, hey, I  _ did  _ get shot! I think that calls for some happy pills.”

“Poor you. Want me to kiss it better?”

Dean grinned, and then tapped his own lips with his index finger.

“Did you just  _ Raiders  _ me?”

“I’m surprised you know that reference. I thought all you watched were weird serial killer documentaries and swordscrafting shows.”

Castiel hummed. “You’d be surprised.”

“Well, then, surprise me.” Dean’s hands slipped around to the back of Castiel’s neck, applying just the hint, the tender tentative suggestion, of pressure. Castiel let himself be drawn in, leaning over the hospital bed until he was kissing Dean, soft and sweet on the lips, Dean’s hands slowly running through Castiel’s hair and Castiel thought,  _ Today. _

“That  _ was  _ surprising,” Dean said when they parted. “You’re a shockingly-good kisser.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “Is that a compliment?”

“Although, it could be just a  _ little  _ better. No worries. I’m sure it’ll come with practice.”

“Practice,” Castiel repeated.

Dean grinned. “Makes perfect, sweetheart. All you need is a willing participant.”

“I see. I’ll go ask Charlie, then.”

“Charlie’s a  _ lesbian,”  _ Dean said, half-laughing as he started tugging Castiel down again.

“Oh. Ash, then.”

“Cas! He’s like, nineteen!”

“Pity. I’m sure I could find  _ someone.  _ Apparently, I do have pretty eyes.”

“Oh my god,” Dean said, fully laughing now, “just shut up and kiss me again before I have to break out the mistletoe.”

“If you insist,” Castiel said, smiling. Over by the heart monitor, the beeping skyrocketed.

> “I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only. I would like to be that unnoticed and that necessary.”
> 
> ― Margaret Atwood

**Author's Note:**

> This whole thing was inspired from [this one meme](https://www.reddit.com/r/me_irl/comments/hnbnxe/me_irl/). It turned out to be a lot more than just that, but I still have to give credit where it's due, lol. Also, special thanks to [ensorcel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ensorcel) for listening to me yell about this at 4AM. Thanks a million ^^
> 
> Merry Christmas! Wherever you are, whomever you are, I hope this fic brightened your day just a little. Cheers and best wishes <333


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